


RPFFPS

by sanity_not_in_tact



Series: 'Platonic' Phan [3]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: I know nothing, Other, also a feeble attempt at humour, have fun, i have a lot of research to do, i mean you can read into it i suppose but i haven't written them together, idk if it gets as horror genre oriented as i thought it would i can call it a build up to halloween, if you're looking for Phan you've come to the wrong place lol, mostly on firearms, whatever, yeah dan wakes up in an FPS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8207618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanity_not_in_tact/pseuds/sanity_not_in_tact
Summary: Dan wakes up on what seems to be a normal day, until he pieces together that the commotion outside is in fact the sounds of a battlefield.(Dan gets stuck in a badly written FPS)





	

Dan woke to what felt like a regular Saturday morning in his flat in London. It was still quite early and he was in the process of questioning what woke him when he heard what sounded like a gunshot, which resolved that mystery but which spawned many more, most of which Dan's drowsy brain elected to ignore.

 

 _“Strange sounding fireworks. I wonder what they're celebrating. Sounded pretty close. Can't remember if crackers are still legal in this country – I'll check wikipedia later...”_ His early morning mental ramblings carried on in a similar fashion as he lazily dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen to make breakfast.

 

“PHIL!? COFFEE!?” he called out, but was just about the furthest thing from surprised when no response could be heard. Phil wasn't usually up at this early hour. Another loud bang sounded, a little closer this time, followed by a man's baritone cries.

 

 _“Idiot probably stood too close,”_ he snorted, and decided it was okay to make fun of it when no sirens of further cries could be heard for more than ten minutes afterward.

 

He had almost finished his cereal and was half way through his coffee when he heard something which sounded very different form any crackers he imagined would pass the health and safety guidelines. It sounded like a very explosive drumroll, or maybe one of those drills that go through concrete... or firearms, he supposed. He shrugged and downed the rest of his coffee in one go, but choked on it when it sounded again, this time drawing closer.

 

 _“This may be the UK, but that_ definitely _sounded like a gunshot.”_

 

“PHIL!? DID YOU HEAR THAT!?”

Once again, there was no response. It occurred to Dan for the first time over the course of that mentally slow morning that Phil would surely have been woken by such a commotion.

 

With a slightly worried frown, Dan stood up and made his way back down the hall, and knocked on Phil's door. Once again, there was no reply.

 

_“Deep sleep, much-”_

His thoughts were abruptly silenced as he cracked the door open to reveal a room devoid of one Phil Lester. In fact, the bed didn't even look slept in.

 

“PHIL!? ARE YOU IN THE HOUSE!?” Shouting an entire exchange across the household was not an uncommon part of daily life in their flat, but it did strike Dan as slightly odd that the neighbours didn't stomp on the ceiling in annoyance like the normally would.

 

He stepped back out into the hall and made his way to the staircase; the perfect vantage point for maximum sonic reach. “PHIL!?” he called again, and huffed in annoyance when there was once again no reply. Worry was starting to creep into his subconscious but he was too focused on the preset situation to address it.

 

He reluctantly climbed the stairs, grunting in annoyance with every step, and swept the flat from the top floor down – still no sign of Phil, and he hadn't left a note either. Finally, Dan dragged his feet back to his bedroom to unplug his phone and send him a text.

 

(are you out?)>

 

He didn't stand around waiting for a reply, but slipped his phone back in his pocket and flicked his laptop open, bringin up a chrome window in search of the news.

 

Oddly enough, the search engine didn't seem to be functioning properly. He could visit anything in his browser history and a few pages apparently funded by the South English Anglo-Defence Force, which frankly sounded racist and which he was sure he'd never heard of, but nothing much else.

 

“Uhm, okay?”

He resigned to open the homepage, and one eyebrow shot up at what he read.

 

'… always looking for volunteers on the northern border of London.'

He clicked the link underlining 'northern border of london' before reading on, intrigued. He was taken to what appeared to be an outsourced news feed with article headings as follows:

 

'US-based Protestors Calling Themselves 'Anglo/Celt Equalists' attack Norther London Border...'

 

'London's Prime Minister Jerry Pratchett Pushes for Drafting Policy Bill...'

 

'James Hult of London's Northern Border Defences Calls for Volunteers...'

 

It all sounded like a badly written apocalyptic sci-fi. A _very_ badly written apocalyptic sci-fi. Some of these articles were days old, and Dan had no recollection of the events they described. They implied that London had become and independent state, and that there was some sort of war waging between the English and the Celts, Which would have made sense a few centuries ago bit his phone's clock confirmed that it was indeed mid October, 2016 years after christ died on the cross, not that he ever doubted it.

 

“What the ever-loving fuck.” Was all Dan could think to say.

 

He decided that googling 'the SEADF' would be a good place to start, but he'd barely typed the words in when another gunshot sounded, almost as if it had gone off just out on the street.

 

 _“Well if this is real life and this stupid Anglo/Celt war obviously doesn't exist, then that is one motherfucking_ mind-blowing _co-inkey-dink.”_

 

Thinking back on the morning, the gunshots seemed to make a lot of sense in context with this apparent siege on anglo-supremacist, independent-state London.

 

The search results for 'the SEADF' finally loaded, and he clicked on the 'Walkiepedia' link with a rip-off of the Wikipedia logo; he couldn't seem to find a genuine Wikipedia article on anything, anywhere.

 

'… The SEADF ( South English Anglo-Defence Force ) is the primary military organisation charged with the protection of Anglo-Descendants with London and South-English citizenship or proof of long-term residence. Its primary roles include the processing and monitoring of proven Celtic Descendants, defence against Celtic forces originating in Scotland and Northern England...'

 

Dan stopped reading right there. Anglos and Celts stopped being two separate races millennia ago, there was no such thing as distinct Anglo versus Celtic ancestry. If absolutely any race war were to start up in the UK, Anglos versus Celts would be next to the very least likely of all options...

_“But probably much more likely as a shitty plot device for safely discussing race war without being directly relevant to the 21 st century.”_

 

What his brain was implying, Dan had no idea. Whatever absolute nonsense this rip-off of Wikipedia was spewing, the next series of gunshots sounding from his street were enough to make him care a little bit less about politics in that moment.

 

Phil still hadn't responded and if there was any sense left in this strange reality at all, the evidence pointed to Phil being out of the house, in the violent and _extremely unlikely_ DeathZone which London had apparently evolved to.

 

Dan immediately sprung into action, grabbing his phone, keys, wallet and darkest hoodie. Being sure to dress in all black right down to his socks, not that it would make much difference in daylight, he equipped himself with the best supplies he could get his hands on – a can of deodorant (would suffice as pepper spray), a cerated carving knife (he grimaced at the thought of what a jab from that would feel like), and a thermos full of straight black coffee (hydration with a side of instant energy). He crept down the stairs and peered through the peep-hole. There didn't seem to be any bulky guys with guns patrolling the street but then, he couldn't really tell from this angle. Shrugging, he stepped outside.

 

Instantly, the bright sun hit his eyes and forced them to painfully adjust. The first thing he managed to focus on was a girl in her late teens with a slight frame, wearing painfully ordinary blue jeans, white sneakers and a pink crop top which left nothing to the imagination, all straight from the mid-naughties. She stopped and turned to face him in a weirdly artificial manner, and waved. That was when Dan noticed the very obvious health bar suspended in mid-air above her head, under the username AngloDies814XXx.

 

“What the _fuck?_ ” Dan breathed, almost inaudibly. The girl stood a good twelve metres away, and he didn't have the wits about him to call out to her. All he managed was to absently form an awed 'o' shape with his mouth and point at her health bar.

 

“Uh, yes, I know. 77%? Do you read?” The girl said, only just raising her voice loud enough to be heard from across the streat.

 

“Wh-what...” Dan looked above his own head, and saw nothing there. He turned back around to face the girl and cleared his throat, “Why- Uh, Why don't I have one?”

 

“You must be a new player, huh. You don't need one, silly, you already know how close to death you are at any given moment. Pinch your arm.”

 

He did as she asked, and felt the usual slight discomfort.

 

“There, see? Did you feel any damage?”

 

“Uh... No?”

 

“Now, come closer.” She gave him an unnaturally tight smile and made a beckoning motion. He shrugged and stepped off the curb, slowly drawing closer to her.

 

“Now, see this here,” She said, as a massive barrel shotgun appeared in her hand, and she shot his side, only just grazing his hip.

 

He screamed out in shock and pain, and dove behind the low brick wall lining the front lawn of one of his neighbour's houses. He peered over the top, “What the _fuck_ was that!!?”

 

“Damn,” she said, “That was underwhelming. My point is,” She fired again, but Dan had the foresight to duck as she was raising it to aim.

 

“You felt that, didn't you? Granted, I only grazed you. You still have at least 98%”

 

Right, he still has a nervous system for damage warning purposes. Another gunshot, prompting him to snap his hand back from the edge of the fence. “Why did you have to _bait_ me?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” she must have switched weapons, because a wave of bullets, probably intent on cutting through the brick, rained down on the other side of the wall, “Sorry about that. I'm designed for close combat; terrible aim, I'm afraid.”

 

She wasn't very good at surprise attacks either, apparently. Even with Dan's ears ringing like the bells of St. John, he could still hear her creeping forward. Once she was close enough, Dan gripped the carving knife in his left hand, quickly shot up over the fence and firmly knocked her on the head with the base of the handle. She crumpled to the floor.

 

“Designed for close combat, my ass-”

 

He cut off abruptly at the sight of her health-bar dropping at an alarming pace. “Clearly not designed for durability either. Jesus. Fuck.” He continued a string of curses as it occurred to him that she could die, and she _could be a real life sentient being,_ for all he knew. The persistent pain in his side confirmed that at least _he_ wasn't immune to the 'physics engine' in what must be a spectacularly badly written FPS of some sort.

 

He was just gathering his wits, preparing to assess the damage and see if there was any such thing as 'emergency medical attention' in this bizarre universe when a massive, camouflaged, stilted four-wheels obviously modelled on a Jeep rounded the corner and came charging at 50 mph in his general direction. He had his suspicions, but the panic didn't settle in until it became clear that they were veering off the road and charging at the fence which he'd somehow dazedly managed to step in front of, and he ran in the general away-from-the-rip-off-Jeep direction faster than he thought he'd ever be capable. There was no way he could outrun a car in any universe, so he took a small pedestrian path between a row of flats and slipped between two buildings sitting too close together for even a motorcycle to pass through. He came out the other side onto an old neglected train service yard and heard the Jeep rev behind him and dent its nose in the front of the two buildings he'd just passed through.

 

“ _Idiots. Do they think they can bulldoze two apartment buildings down with a fake Jeep?”_ As the thought occurred to him, he heard the distinct sound of car doors opening and slamming shut, and sprinted across the service yard for a place to hide. He found another low-rising wall nestled between two dense trees and decided it was the best spot he'd be able to find. The sound of two men entering and then passing straight through the service yard confirmed that not all players are remarkably intelligent, and that they mightn't be able to view his assets, which Dan realised with a start that he just happened to know, almost instinctually.

 

Trying to slow his racing heart and clear his head, he took a few deep breaths and attempted to think rationally for a moment.

 

“ _Okay, Dan, getting past the obvious strangeness of the situation...”_

 

One thing he was certain of: he could forget about finding Phil until he had a plan, or he'd just get himself killed. And there was the first problem: what happens when you die in this world? Well there would be no point getting philosophical in a time like this so the safest bet would be to assume that if you die, that's it. No more Dan in this universe, or in the decidedly more sane one he was more familiar with. He could apparently sustain injury and, despite the alarmingly accelerated rate he appeared to be healing at, that would imply that he can die in the game. Whether or not he had multiple lives was not worth the risk of finding out.

 

Wherever the information about his assets originated, he noted that he had an intelligence rating of 4.5 which is apparently very impressive, with particular strength in 'memory', 'strategy'. 'literacy' and 'rational thinking' but with a slight dent in 'creativity', he also had a helpfully high rating of 4.75 under 'reaction time' and 4.0 under 'stress tolerance' ; however his physical assets were less impressive. He chuckled at the double entendre but quickly turned grave at the results – an incredibly underwhelming 1.25 for 'physical strength', 2.0 for 'stamina', 1.0 for 'flexibility' and 1.25 for 'agility'. Under any other circumstances his scores would be amusing.

 

None of this told him anything he didn't already know, however, the average rating for each asset gave him an idea of what he was up against. Most people had an average of 2.5 – 3.0 for everything.

He'd gathered that his intelligence would be his best hope, but he hadn't taken the time to consider how helpless he'd be in a fight.

 

Lastly, he found he had a score of 4.75 under 'aim', the same for 'adaptability'. Those, he could work with. He needed to get his hands on a rifle. He would resolve the issue of whether he'd permit himself to maim or kill in the moment as he honestly didn't want to have to put too much thought into it.

 

Lastly, his scores were averaged to give him a total of 1.25 for 'close range/hand-to-hand', 4.75 for 'long range' and a 'character summary' that suggested he be kept off the field and used for his intelligence, but not be put in any leadership roles. Which meant, of course, that he was practically useless.

 

For now, even just running that short distance had drained him, so he would have to figure out a system for conserving the thermos of coffee he'd packed. He had no idea if or when he'd find Phil or what he'd do when night fell, and he hadn't even had the chance to find out if any of the shops were still open in apocalyptic independent-state London during a siege.

 

There was also the question of where he'd look for Phil, and at which point he'd give up and commit suicide in the hopes that he'd have more than one life or wake up in the world he knows with Phil still alive, well, and in the flat.

 

He checked his phone again, and there was still no answer. He didn't know how the internet worked in this world so frankly he couldn't be sure if either of them could even receive or send messages.

 

If he stayed put much longer, a crisis was guaranteed to hinder most chances of thinking rationally and finding Phil. He also suspected he might need a vehicle. How else was he meant to find him?

 

Things were starting to look very bleak, and not at all as amusing and ridiculous as they had to begin with. Never mind how this reality could even be possible, how he'd ended up here, what any of it meant, or how how he could possibly hope to leave it; he needed to find out what the laws of the game were, and he needed to find Phil.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i know nothing about guns. please help
> 
> i've written like half of the next chapter but i need to do some research for it, actually come up with the entire plot and fill in some gaps so idk it might be up by 6/10/16 australian eastern standard time? 
> 
> thoughts?


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